


Won

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, M/M, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-07
Updated: 2017-08-07
Packaged: 2018-12-12 14:10:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11738676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Gimli returns, alive, the morning after Helm’s Deep.





	Won

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: For this week’s [silmread,](http://silmread.tumblr.com/post/163889256810/38-the-road-to-isengard) wherein The Road to Isengard has this scene and dialogue but not the hug.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Lord of the Rings or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

The morning sun is bright and fair, the air both crisp and cool, and it’s wholly, incredibly pleasant after the broiling fog of Helm’s Deep. Aragorn’s bones still ache from the battle, but his heart sings to see Gandalf emerge over the green grass, following along the stream. Others come beside him—Gamling and Éomer, looking no worse for wear—Éomer’s blond hair streams out behind him like the purest gold: a great treasure saved from the fires. A weight leaves Aragorn’s shoulder at seeing him.

Though there’s no crunch of the grass to tell, Aragorn can sense when Legolas steps up beside him. Legolas’ own blond tresses dance in the early breeze, his blue eyes wide on the party that approaches them. He’s somehow escaped the grime and sweat that Aragorn’s caked in, touched nowhere by the foul black blood of orcs. He even _smells_ sweet, though the air is stained with the horrid reek of battle. His purity’s long brought Aragorn comfort.

Legolas’ breath hitches, and Aragorn’s eyes tear away from his, following his clear gaze to where a smaller figure has emerged behind the host. Gimli the dwarf walks forward, taut and proud, as swift as his companions despite his stouter legs. His head misses its helm, and a linen strip is wrapped about his forehead instead, thick with blood. When they’re close enough for it to carry far, Gimli calls, “Forty-two, Master Legolas!” He lifts his free hand in victory, a fist full of strength, and gestures with the other to cry, “Alas, my axe is notched—the forty-second had an iron collar on his neck. How is it with you?”

Aragorn turns his head again to Legolas, awaiting the response. Legolas’ pink lips stretch into a broad grin, and he hums a short laugh that chimes like a nightingale. He shakes his head and answers with no number, but instead rushes suddenly forward. He crosses the space between in no time at all, his lithe legs scaling the terrain in seconds. Then he’s right before his friend, falling to his knees, and he lunges in to wrap his arms tight around Gimli’s neck. His face ducks over Gimli’s broad shoulder, his chest flattened against Gimli’s thick beard. His slender body makes a strange picture, knelt in the grass and cocooned around a man both half his size and twice as large, just in different places. Gimli, looking quite taken by surprise, has done nothing to stop it.

Then colour blossoms in his cheeks, and he slowly wraps the axe-less arm around Legolas’ round shoulders, holding lightly on. 

For a long moment, the rest are silent, respecting the reunion. Then finally, Legolas withdraws again, though he stays kneeling before his Dwarven counterpart, and he genially replies, “You have passed my score by one. But I do not grudge you the game, so glad am I to see you on your legs!”

Gimli looks rather astonished, but then he conspicuously coughs and mutters, “Well, yes, and a fine game it was.” Though Aragorn gets the feeling he’s quite forgotten it, and Legolas’ serene expression seems to care no more for the woes of last night either. They make an odd pair, the two of them, but Aragorn finds himself warmed by their growing bond. He waits for them, though Gandalf turns to Théoden, and Éomer approaches him. 

Looking back at both dwarf and elf, Éomer murmurs to him, “They have a special friendship indeed, those two, to overcome their differences.”

Aragorn’s no longer sure how many differences any of them have. But he mutters, “Aye,” and goes to join his party.


End file.
